


Asphodel

by BleedingMagpie



Series: What is and once was [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Chara Has Issues, Gen, Nonbinary Chara and Frisk, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, probably anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2018-09-23 14:00:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9660350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingMagpie/pseuds/BleedingMagpie
Summary: “... You love flowers.”“And look where that got him. It’s not that big a deal, Frisk, really.”





	1. Sketch

You smile, of course. It is what is expected of you, and you do not wish to disappoint. You have done that enough for several lifetimes, already.

Frisk is the exception, of course. They’ve already seen you at your worst, however you may have tried to hide it. They smile at you, put the pencil and sketchbook in your hands, and tell you that someone who creates such beautiful things surely can’t be all bad. They say that it wasn’t your fault, not really.

They’re lying, of course.

You don’t  _ tell _ them that, though. You have more tact than that. So you take the sketchbook and pencil, and try to remind yourself how you used to draw. It’s easier than you expected. You remember the details of flowers surprisingly well, you find when you actually look for photos of those you drew. Certainly well enough to stun Frisk and have them tell you that you could illustrate a botany guide.

You consider showing Asriel, but decide against it. He’s probably been a flower too long to enjoy your drawings of them.

You relax around Frisk. They have no expectations of you, not really. They know you too well, but that’s to be expected after they had you in their head. There are not many secrets, in that situation. 

Everyone else, however… You always remain on your best behavior, for them. It doesn’t matter that most of them never so much as knew your name before you were brought back, they have expectations. They’d never say it, but you know they’d be disappointed if you failed to meet those always unspoken expectations. 

The bar is high, but you are determined.

Frisk does not approve. They say they’re worried. You can deal with this, though. Of course you can, that was why you were once called ‘the future of humans and monsters’. That would’ve never happened if you weren’t a truly phenomenal actor.

“So… What kinds of flowers are those, Chara?”

Oh, you had nearly forgotten Frisk was there. Drawing, at least, gave you time to think.

“Asphodels.”

They were nice flowers, if not your favorites. Though golden flowers weren’t, either. Not anymore. They left a bitter taste in your mouth, after everything that had happened.

You hadn’t told anyone that.

“You’re really good at drawing, Chara.” Frisk praises your drawings quite a bit. It manages to coax a smile- however small- out of you, despite yourself.

“So you keep saying.”

Frisk, of all people, gets you to relax. Ever so gradually, you get less formal with them. They’re eager to see your drawings, to hear you ramble about whatever topics are on your mind at the time, to listen to you read your favorite books aloud. You aren’t really trying to please or impress them, but they are nonetheless.

“You should show Asriel! Your drawings are beautiful.”

You practically feel yourself stiffen, staring down at the flowers on the page.

“I don’t think he’d appreciate it.”

Frisk frowns, staring at you sadly. You know they’re trying to patch up your relationship with Asriel, but there really isn’t all that much to be done. Things are the way they are, and they could never really go back to how they were.

“... You love flowers.”

“And look where that got him. It’s not that big a deal, Frisk, really.”

Frisk slowly reaches over, and puts a hand on top of yours when you make no move to stop them. The difference in your hands is amazing. Frisk’s hands are calloused and sturdy, strong but gentle. You have long, thin fingers, your hands look frail. Far more so than they actually are, you’ve seen what you can do. 

You try to keep your hands occupied.

Frisk  intertwines their fingers with yours, the contrast so, so obvious. You are nothing like Frisk, but they don’t seem to mind. Frisk uses their free hand to take the sketchbook out of your hand, setting it to the side. 

Frisk is always slow and careful about touching you. You have never been able to adequately tell them how grateful you are for everything they’ve done, much less their apparently boundless patience. You’ve tried writing down something you might say, but it never seems to get the full magnitude of your gratitude across.

You also know they would never do this where Asriel could see. You can’t blame them, you can practically feel the resentment emanating from him whenever you’re in the same room as Frisk. You have taken to avoiding this, leaving the room often as soon as he arrives. You don’t want to get in the way of a conversation between him and Frisk.

But Asriel isn’t here, right now.

Frisk leans against you, head on your shoulder, not letting go of your hand.

“You don’t need to pretend so much, Chara. You’re more than good enough just the way you are.”

You don’t say anything. Frisk is dead set on that, and you believe otherwise. Neither of you are easily convinced. Frisk already knows that. It’s a conversation you’ve had before.

You gently push Frisk off your shoulder and stand up, pencil and sketchbook brought with you.

“I’m going to go have some tea.”

“... Alright.”

Frisk is hesitant to let you leave, as always, but they don’t stop you. You’re not certain, but you think that might be for the same reasons you never really stopped them. Choices. Consequences. These things are important. If you stop people from making their own choices, then what’s the  _ point? _ Of course, in this you have allowed terrible things to happen. That was your sin, your choice, but that freedom to choose is so, so important.

After all, it was not a freedom you always had.

You set your sketchbook and pencil on the table before filling a kettle with water and letting it boil, grabbing two mugs out of the cabinet. No teapots or teacups. You are not Asgore. Just as you expected, Frisk soon enters the kitchen as well.

“How does strawberry mango black tea sound?”

Frisk gives you a Look, but nods. You set the mugs down and get a couple tea bags, looping the strings around the handles. 

The two of you are silent as you wait, and the quiet is only broken when you pour hot water into the mugs. Frisk’s Companion Cube mug is much smaller than your own pixel heart one. You know they would insist on using it, nonetheless. You hand them their mug before putting a fairly large amount of sugar in your own.

“You should talk to Asriel more.”

And of course. You exhale through your teeth, turning around and looking at Frisk.

“I know exactly how he feels about me, Frisk. I have accepted it. I am doing my best despite this.”

It’s not a subject either of you will budge on, like so many others. For anyone else, you may concede, but only because you are expected to be polite. You sit down and drink your tea with Frisk in silence. Frisk finishes before you, of course.

They leave.

You don’t do anything for a moment before grabbing your pencil and pulling the sketchbook closer, you have a drawing to finish, after all.

Once upon a time, you did show your drawings of flowers to Asriel, and you recall that he liked them.

You laugh to yourself, and you swear you can taste the buttercups again.

Asphodels.

_ My regrets follow you to the grave _ .


	2. Soap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories

A perhaps surprising number of weapons were derived from agricultural tools. Which, you suppose, makes sense. Anything is capable of being a weapon-

_Ballet shoes notebook frying pan_

And so many farming tools lend themselves to it so, so easily. Shovels, pitchforks, scythes, hammers, flails, sickles-

_Perfect for cutting plants and vines._

The list went on. And it was always the improvised weapons that were the scariest, weren't they? There were counters for conventional weapons, but it was always at the worst time that you realized that you had no idea how to deal with, say, a meat hook tied to a stick or a padlock on the end of a chain. A shovel could be a club or an ax, depending on how it was swung.

Monsters have no need for improvised weapons, they have magic. Humans, on the other hand, are so incredibly-

Your pencil lead breaks and you look down.

Oh.

That really is quite the horror show. Not the most readable of your drawings by any means, but it certainly gets the mood across. It's interesting, really. The contrast between your flowers and  _this_. This was a drawing you could never show Frisk, or anyone else for that matter, but it was cathartic. In a way.

It could be worse. You could've been holding a knife.

You neatly tear the page out of your sketchbook and put it in an accordion folder that you've designated for such drawings. After all, people may want to dig through the sketchbook itself.

You close the sketchbook and set your pencil aside. Perhaps you ought to get some mechanical pencils. You'll have to ask Toriel, later.

Drawing is a wonderful distraction, but it doesn't last forever. Eventually, you need to stop, and the irritation beneath your skin comes back into focus.

You need to wash your hands.

* * *

The water is always hot. It has to be.

You bite down on your lip as you scrub your hands. The soap was a gift, but it is perhaps gentler than what you'd really like. You know the soap is something floral and charcoal.

You still smell rot.

This isn't enough.


	3. Snap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You will regret this later, but not now.

You dimly recall that no one here has ever seen you  _fight_ before, and realize that you will regret this later. Later, but not now.

Right now you are a snarling, screaming,  _howling_ thing and there is nothing in all of heaven and hell that could stop you.  You know there are people you care about around you, that they can see you absolutely savaging this hapless victim of your rage. But that is so, so little compared to the feeling of what you are  _doing_. You cannot tell if what you're hearing is your own voice, the voice of the  _wretch_ beneath you, or the voices of the people around you. 

You will regret this later, but  _now_ you just wish you had claws and fangs to aid you.

You are accustomed to the derision, the mockery, the hatred you get from humanity as a whole. It's nothing new, wasn't even before your fall. But something this man beneath you said made something in your brain go  _'click'_ and you just... lost it.

Funny. You can't even remember what he said.

He shifts just in time for your fist to slam into the ground. Part of you registers that you heard a snapping sound. You brush it off and slam your elbow down upon his chest. 

You're thrown off him before it can connect and you shriek like a banshee, like a dying animal. Oh, you recognize that blue magic. Papyrus looks like he's struggling to hold you down. 

There's blood under your nails and coming out of your victim's face. You think you bit the inside of your mouth at some point.  You're still snarling. 

You only calm down once the object of your fury has been taken away. Presumably to have his injuries taken care of. Toriel is fussing over you, asking why you would ever throw a punch hard enough to break your own arm.

Right. The snapping noise, of course.

Released from the hold of magic, you nearly fall over. People are staring. Toriel asked you a question. You should answer. Your mouth feels like it's stuffed with cotton and you taste blood. You don't know whose it is. You probably bit that man at least once, and you can bite pretty hard. The smell of blood covers the smell of rot, and for that you are grateful. What did Toriel ask again? You open your mouth to answer and blood pours out of it. Asriel looks like he's going to be sick. Frisk just looks worried.

People are talking. All at once. You can't pick out what any of them are saying.

You say something and they stop, staring at you. You're babbling. What are you saying? There's blood in your mouth and under your nails and you must be a truly terrible sight to behold. 

They couldn't stop you until you broke your arm. Of course they couldn't stop you. Any deity that may have been watching couldn't have stopped you. They wouldn't have had even the slightest hope of stopping you. You defied time and space and death itself, after all.

You have tasted divinity and it is bitter and metallic and sharp. You have tasted divinity and  _wouldn't Asriel like to know?_  

You are laughing. Tears run down your face and mix with blood. You push yourself away from Toriel with the one arm that still obeys you.

You're still talking. You can't hear yourself but the people around you- people you care about- look afraid. You offer a wide, crooked grin.

And you fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a while


End file.
